


Blaming the Captain

by spiderweb_wine



Category: Torchwood
Genre: M/M, Probably rated R? Because Jack inspires that, Yes this is a warning for the Jack Harkness Effect
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-07-10
Updated: 2012-07-10
Packaged: 2017-11-09 14:02:33
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/456286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spiderweb_wine/pseuds/spiderweb_wine
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ianto had been half-hard for three quarters of the afternoon, and he was blaming it on the Captain. Well, probably blaming it on the Captain.</p><p>One could never quite condemn him, not for this. After all, Jack was just being Captain Jack Harkness the only way he knew. It wasn’t making Ianto’s job any easier.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Blaming the Captain

**Author's Note:**

> I don't really feel responsible for the good Captain's hijinks in this fic.

Ianto had been half-hard for three quarters of the afternoon, and he was blaming it on the Captain. Well, probably blaming it on the Captain.

One could never quite condemn him, not for this. After all, Jack was just being Captain Jack Harkness the only way he knew. It wasn’t making Ianto’s job any easier.

 

It had started with the Captain bending forward over the conference table to illustrate a point, and the man had enough money to buy soft grey wool trousers that perfectly fit his gorgeous arse, so. So. Ianto adjusted the fit of his own trousers carefully, out of view of the CCTV.

 

Then there was the Captain ordering coffee in a completely dirty and intimate voice, just because Ianto had stood a little too close when inquiring whether he wanted any. Dodging Jack’s grabby hands on the way out of the office had been a close-run thing.

 

After that it had been the width of Jack’s shoulders shrugging into that damned coat when the weevil alarm went off. Also, the way his fingers brushed Ianto’s, almost but not quite lingering too long, as they both tried to straighten the collar at the same time.

 

Next - - no, later. Later, it was the smooth flex and shift of Jack’s hands on the wheel of SUV as he drove it home the fast route, as Ianto clutched his weevil-broken wrist to his chest, as the weevil who had broken it snarled in the back. There had been a rush of fangs and claws, a jolt of sharp, deep pain in his wrist before Jack bagged the weevil.

“Just a sprain,” Ianto panted, not moving. Owen’s fingers probed, delicate and knowing, Ianto’s words found false.

Owen spoke with Jack, too quiet for everyone to hear, and then they were back in the vehicle, Tosh reading the GPS in a voice tight with sympathy. Ianto got shotgun, braced his shoulder against the passenger door, and watched Jack drive with precision and control. Far from his usual ‘I’m immortal and this thing’s tough’ attitude.

 

The pain should have been an arousal suppressant. It wasn’t.

 

“A splint and bandages will let you keep greater muscle strength and movement. A cast hurts less,” Owen said, when Ianto was sitting in his surgery and the others had dispersed.

“Well, then,” Ianto said, “splint, please.”

Half an hour later, wrist set, splinted, and bound, Ianto presented himself in the weapons room. Jack glanced over his shoulder from stashing away the weevil supplies, eyes widening. Then, a flash of relief in the durable blue.

“Ianto. Owen gave you painkillers? Good ones?”

“He did, sir.”

“Go make coffee, we all need some. No handling heavy machinery on the good drugs, and guns are definitely heavy machinery.”

“Sir.” Ianto went to the loo, first. The bloody trousers were still too tight.

 

Then, Ianto could only adjust himself so many times before Jack, who had CCTV feeds in his office, would catch on. He was twice as clumsy with only the right hand functional. The call that it was time to go home was a distinct relief. He picked up a bin bag and started his final sweep, catching the candy wrappers in Tosh’s bottom drawer, Gwen’s half-drunk coffees, straightening things that really shouldn’t fall off desks the next time anyone ran for an alarm. Being promoted to field duty didn’t mean he wasn’t the custodian anymore. He took the flotsam out the big bin in the garage, came back through the garage door, turned to close it, and - ran straight into Jack. Jack, who caught Ianto when he would have stumbled backwards, slid big hands down, and pulled Ianto sharply flush with his own body.

“Sir!”

“Yes, Ianto? Something you’d like to tell me about? Mmm, a not-so-little something…”

“Sir, Jack, we’re still at work sir, and I still have those harassment forms at my desk.”

“You’re not at your desk, now, are you? Though my desk sounds rather enticing. Don’t worry, they’ve all gone home and I,” and Ianto could hear Jack’s patented smirk, “I have the edit codes for the cameras.”

 

Next - - well.

“I know you, Ianto. I know how you walk when you’re busy, when you’re not busy, when you’re injured, when you want to punch Owen in the face, and when you really, really want to fuck me over the conference table until we scream. Am I right? About the conference table? Oh, yeah.”

“You - ” Ianto, said, off-balance. Jack had backed him into the edge of Tosh’s desk, and he winced as Jack’s weight, with momentum behind it, hit his injured wrist.

“On purpose? Oh, yeah. See, I figure,” and his big, warm hands were easing Ianto’s arm out from between them, fingers light on the bandages, and then hard on Ianto’s hips, turning him so his back was against Jack. “I figure, the more I drag it out the more you’ll want it.” Jack’s breath was light over the back of Ianto’s neck. He let his head fall forward, caught in a delicious cage of heat. Some of it may have been the painkillers. Probably. Maybe. Maybe not.

“Jack…”

“The way you stand? When you’ve been hard all afternoon? It’s all in these muscles here,” – the sweep of Jack’s hands across his shoulderblades, erasing tension – “and here.” Jack’s hands came to rest at the base of Ianto’s spine, too warm and too strong. He tugged, grinding against Ianto through layers of tailored fabric, palming Ianto’s cock until he groaned and melted into Jack’s heat.

 

Ianto’s last full-sentence-coherent thought for quite a while was that he was definitely blaming the Captain.


End file.
